


they don't care about us (no witnesses)

by oceanknives



Category: La leggenda del pianista sull'oceano | The Legend of 1900 (1998), Novecento
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Happy Ending, I swear it works, LISTEN alright I wanted to emulate the book, M/M, POV First Person, soft, they can hear bits of each other's thoughts, we're ignoring canon ladies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 09:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20356393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanknives/pseuds/oceanknives
Summary: There's a music in my head and it's been yours all along.Or, in a world where soulmates can hear glimpses of each other's thoughts, Tim Tooney and Novecento have spent years hearing the other's music.





	they don't care about us (no witnesses)

**Author's Note:**

> I love this book more than I love myself, I want to meet Alessandro Baricco and then punch him in the face for ruining my life with it, I wish I could read Italian because there aren't enough fics in English here.
> 
> Now, I tried to emulate Baricco's style, but it uuuuuh yeah I don't know maybe I'd manage it better in French, point is I TRIED and I really hope you enjoy this because this idea has haunted me ever since it popped into my head.
> 
> Also shout out to Keaton Henson and his song No Witnesses, No Crime, I fucking love getting my heart broken.

There had always been something between Novecento and I. We played well, together, everybody said so. We played well alone, of course, but there was a little... spark, when we had the other there. "You lads write the music together," had said one of the guys once. We’d laughed and said “yeah, sure,” and moved on and that was that. We never thought twice about it, because what were we supposed to do about it ? But there _ was _something to do about it, and it had to catch up with us one day.

We were in third class, just us two, playing the _ other _ notes. Novecento didn’t smile that often, but when he did, oh — you felt it seep into everything around him, floor and ceiling and chairs and people, and his fingers slammed the keys wildly, painting the notes with sunshine until the whole room was alight. This music, _this_ was happiness, and everyone was feeling it.

Novecento played some light and airy notes, giving me space to improvise. I could almost hear him say “go on, have fun now,” so I smiled softly and happily complied. All the fatigue, the frustration, the nostalgia for solid ground or the smell of forests, the crook in my neck, the joy bursting inside my chest, all of it breathed out of me in an upbeat melody that took me away. I could hear Novecento lay down some basic chords to highlight what I was playing, and it felt like I could guess what he was about to do next — and, of course, it was always just right for what I was about to do myself. All was perfect in the world, until suddenly it wasn’t and my breath fell short.

Because for the first time in his life, Novecento forgot how to play.

They say the silence is loud, you know, when you don't want to hear it. That it’s deafening, that it pushes against your eardrums and weighs down the air. They're right. I thought I'd actually gone deaf at first — but no, I could hear his breathing, faint and yet so discernable, like he’d been stabbed in the chest and had to be careful not to let his lungs collapse. I put my trumpet down, feeling a bit stupid. He turned towards me and he was just _ there _, looking at me. He had nice eyes, Novecento, the kind of eyes that have stared so long at the ocean that the ocean started staring back. That's what he had imprinted in his pupils. Waves. But now his nice eyes were on me, like I'd done something incredible or awfully bad but amazing in its terribleness, and I didn't quite know where to put myself.

“W-why did you stop playing ?” I asked, a bit scared, because he’d never done that, and I didn’t think I could be surprised by him anymore, and the idea of him not being known to me was terrifying.

“You’re the music.” His eyes were widening more and more with each passing second, the corners of his mouth lifting up a bit, and he really was beautiful like this, with wonder written all over his face.

“What. What do you mean ?” I said, in barely a whisper, because I hadn’t breathed since he’d stopped playing and no one else in third had either and I didn’t know if it was because we’d all forgotten how or if the oxygen had gone away.

“The music in my head. You’re playing it.”

“I — no, I’m playing the music in _my_ head.” The breathing was back, heavy with denial and fear.

“No, you... oh, let me show you.”

Novecento turned back around the bench, putting his hands back on the keys — where they belonged — and furrowed his brows, as if he was trying to remember some forgotten tune. He found it quickly enough, though, started playing, and...

Oh. _ Oh _ . It was something simple, easy, with a couple fancy twists here and there, but more importantly, it was _ mine _. I’d written it when I was 17 or something, still a fresh-faced kid that hadn't stepped foot on a boat yet and had never heard jazz and had never met the best piano player in the world. A different person. I’d never even put it down on paper. And yet here he was, playing it, and it was almost good, you know. He does that, Novecento. He makes things good. His clever fingers will take your soul and play it until it sounds right, until it fits with the music, until you can’t step away anymore. Like the ocean, who’ll take you fresh out of the nest, and will keep you until it hurts not to hear it, until air without iodine smells wrong. Until you forget how to walk on land. So he played my song, and he finished it, and then he turned back towards me, bright eyed and hope smeared all over his teeth — white like the keys — and I couldn’t quite believe it.

“Oh my God.”

*

We were back in our cabin. I felt a bit bad, really, for the folks in third. Their music had been cut short. Well, at least they'd had their entertainment - you should have seen their eyes, wide open, big like the end of my trumpet. It's not every day you see soulmates.

I’d heard about the concept, of course. There’s someone, out there, they’re perfect for you, and sometimes you hear what they think. Crazy, right ? I'd always thought it was a bit made up - some fairy tale people liked to think about when life got hard. Something nice to dream about at night. Not something real. It was too good to be true, really. But now that I let myself think about it...

There had been times, years ago, when I’d get some melody stuck in my head. A melody with notes that weren’t quite normal but, hey, it sounded good. Or when I’d hear words, sudden and strong — ocean / sea / waves / piano / danny / ship. I’d never questioned it, because life is too loud to let you hear fleeting thoughts like these. They were just ideas, and I was just a kid who liked the sea. Right ?

There was the first night I played with the band, during the solo bits, when Novecento and I got kind of taken away and started bouncing off of each other under the amused stares of the other musicians. “And at the trumpet, Tim Tooney — who’s getting a bit carried away, good lad !” they’d said. The passengers laughed, but Novecento just smiled at me. I could’ve sworn he told me “well done,” even though his mouth didn’t move.

There was that night, in the ballroom, where we’d danced with the piano and the sea and the storm — and each other. The music Novecento had played had been familiar, comforting, something I remembered hearing distantly during stormy nights. It wasn’t a famous piece. It wasn’t even a piece at all, really : I’d never heard it before, outside of my head. And yet Novecento was there, playing it, with all the right accents and the right colours and the right breaths. With all the right notes.

There was the night we’d spent down there, shovelling coal into the hungry stomach of the ship, where we didn’t even need to promise each other to always be friends to know that it would happen. We laughed without even knowing why, just because it felt right — _everything_ felt right.

There were the nights we’d spent playing together, once we were assigned to the same cabin, when I taught him a couple notes on the trumpet and laughed at him until he threw it at my head and I laughed some more even though, really, he was quite decent. He did everything right. Almost like he could read my mind.

And then there were those endless afternoons in third, where I fell in love with music like I’d never fallen before, and maybe where I’d fallen in love with Novecento too — because let’s be real, music is never as good as when it’s understood by someone else.

So... so maybe it wasn’t crazy.

“I don’t think it’s crazy,” peeped up Novecento from his bed on the other side of the cabin.

Right.

I sat up on my own bed, looking at him. He was looking back at me, lying down, his head resting against his arm. I felt both too close and too far away from him. Almost scared to speak.

“But-”

“I mean-”

We shut our mouths as soon as we’d opened them. He gestured vaguely towards me with his free hand, and I nodded.

“You have to admit, it’s — I mean, it’s absurd. What are the odds ?! Two guys on a boat ? Come on. Maybe this isn’t even- maybe we’re imagining it. Right ? We’re friends, we know each other, that’s normal.”

“I think you’re scared.”

He just said that. Not even looking in my direction anymore, carelessly throwing this bombshell in the conversation, perched on his fucking high horse of calmness. I couldn't believe it.

“I- yeah, yeah I’m scared ! Of course I’m fucking scared ! This isn’t- I’m not- this boat isn’t real life, Novecento ! This boat is a bubble, and you see real life through it and you think you know all of it, but I’m telling you, the bubble makes it seem much shinier and nicer than it actually is. And outside of the bubble, outside this boat, we’re- ” My voice cracked. I wanted to say ‘we’re dead’, but that seemed too cruel, too real to even think about. “Well. We’re not possible.” 

He got up at that, walking slowly towards me. So at ease, as always, swaying with everything around him. I flinched when he grabbed my hand, but he just kept it between his fingers — soft, safe, warm, loved.

“See, that’s your problem, Tooney. You’re always out of the boat.” He laced his fingers through mine and took my other hand, placing it on his shoulder. “You think out of the boat. But we’re on the boat, Tooney. We're _in_ the boat. There’s nothing but us here. Nothing but the sea.” He started swaying, actually swaying, taking me with him. He closed his eyes, smiling. God. I closed mine too — he was too much to look at, like this, and I couldn’t deal with it. “Listen. Listen to the waves.” I could hear them from far away, licking at the hull, dancing with us. “They’re not judging, they’re not looking. They’re just dancing. They’ve been dancing forever. They don’t care about us.”

There was something in the way he said it, softly, like a promise — they don’t care about us. I could hear it echo in my own head, his voice soothing the deepest parts of my mind, a vow, they don’t care about us. There’s nothing like being in the middle of the ocean to make you realise you don’t matter. They don’t care about us. No witnesses, no crime. I opened my eyes and he was still there, solid in my arms, the center of a moving universe, one fixed point I could only orbit around, and I _wanted_ to fall into him, and it was awfully easy to lean in and kiss him. It was gravity.

He didn’t gasp. He didn’t pull away. He wasn’t even surprised, really. I’m pretty sure he could hear me think about it. He just kissed back, slow, safe, known, his arms slipping around my chest and his hands settling on my jaw, down my neck, and maybe this was where they belonged after all — on me, over me, around me, _always_. It was like playing a familiar piece of music, letting the notes think for you, or maybe it was like writing a new one together. All I know is that I couldn’t really breathe properly after, and that’s a problem when you play the trumpet.

We broke away like we fell together, simple, logical, normal — they don’t care about us.

“Now, Tim. Now you’re in the boat.”

The waves in his eyes danced. Ah, those ones. Those ones cared.

I smiled.

*

We kept playing our music. Dancing between the normal notes and the better ones, between the jazz and the twenty jazzes that Novecento had always known how to play. It was simple, really, and the other folks never had to know. We played in first class, and the people clapped, and we played in third class, and the people sung, and then we played in our cabin, and the waves danced.

“They don’t care about us.”

They really didn’t. 

  



End file.
